Oiled Silk
by Mrs Don Draper
Summary: Lionel touches Bertie all the time. Now he wants a turn.


Lionel spends the whole day massaging, poking, prodding, and pressing his throat, back, diaphragm, cheeks, and stomach, yet very rarely does Bertie get the same chance. He thinks on the times he has and wishes their number was higher:

A breathing exercise required a dance partner to help keep time, and then next thing he knew, he was clinging to Lionel's waist as Lionel swung them about the room, inhaling at each spin and exhaling every other three steps.

A fitness exercise had Bertie doing push-ups to make sure his breathing remained regulated, starting first with a book on his back until he graduated to the good doctor himself.

And finally, a throat exercise that Bertie just did not grasp, prompting Lionel to explain.

"Here," he says, grabbing Bertie's hand and pressing it to his throat. "Do you feel my vocal chords when I say a vowel? You too shall be 'ah-ing' and 'oo-ing' in no time."

Bertie's fingers tremble. His throat is warm and surprisingly soft. He's used to feeling the silk of a duchess and the cotton of an earl, but the petal softness of a commoner? It is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Bertie snatches his hands away. He's letting his mind wander again. Wander to thoughts of Lionel and he in compromising positions.

Bertie wants to touch him again. So when Lionel tests his lymph nodes on a day that the king had mentioned a sore throat, it is all he can do to not push him to the floor and have his wicked way with him whether Lionel wants to or not.

"I'm f-fine. You can take your hand of-f-f me now," he says bitingly.

Lionel obliges.

"My apologies. They're a bit swollen. I'd suggest some tea before we begin. We'll keep this lesson short so as not to strain you."

Lionel turns his back to turn on the stove. It's obvious he's trying not to look hurt. Bertie instantly feels horrible for being so cold to a friend.

"Lionel, I-I didn't mean w-what I said. I just...When you touch me."

He can't say it. Can't articulate these deep seeded, conflicting feelings that are welling up inside him. Lionel's head cocks to the side in curiosity, as if he's half trying to see what the king means and half already knows it.

"You don't need to tell me if you don't want to. It's perfectly alright to-"

He doesn't finish his sentence either, but that's because in two powerful strides, Bertie had come upon him and covered his mouth with his own. His hands roam over the body that caresses him and strengthens him on nearly a daily basis. Now he wants to be the one to heal, to touch, to stroke, rub, whatever Lionel will allow him to do.

Bertie eventually pulls away to breathe, having absolutely nothing intelligent to say or any excuse for his inappropriate behavior.

Lionel strokes his lips with a finger. As if feeling the tingling of the kiss's after-effects still.

"You kiss rather well. Has anyone ever told you that?" Lionel asks roguishly.

Bertie cracks a smile.

"P-perhaps one or two girls made comment." A beat. "Might I show you again?"

Lionel's about to say yes when the kettle goes off with a whistle that makes them both jump. He rushes over to shut it off before the hot water bubbles over. Bertie moves to stand close to him again; as if he cannot bear to be away from him now that he had sampled what Lionel had to offer.

Speechless himself, Lionel sits down on his couch and motions for Bertie to join him.

"We need to talk about this, you know."

Anger flares within him.

"Bloody hell, I don't want to talk! I want to fuck you against a wall or on the floor or however you'll have me. I'm done with talking and stammering. I just want to go to bed with you!"

Lionel is a bit surprised at the use of such shameless profanity from the king; he is more surprised by the sentiment behind the words.

"Bertie, I'm flattered, really. But we're married. You're a king and I'm a commoner. We're both men and would be committing high treason if we were to have relations and -"

Bertie cuts him off again and lays over him on the couch, erection pressing hotly into his thigh. His hands slip under Logue's shirt, finding that feather-light skin again and he slides himself down Lionel's body to mouth at his own hardness there. He feels Lionel twitch through the rough fabric and he instantly wants to rip off his trousers. Bertie fumbles with the fly.

"How do you bloody well undo these dammed things?" Bertie growls in frustration.

Lionel reaches shaking hands down to help him. He's too aroused to do much else. To be dominated in such a way by a_king_ no less was a moment to be remembered and cherished and enjoyed. He didn't think he could stop Bertie from making this mistake, committing this sin, even if he had wanted to.

With pants undone and underthings fiercely yanked down, it is only seconds before Lionel is engulfed in the wet heat of Bertie's mouth. He tries as hard as he to fight the urge to thrust deeper into his throat, wanting badly to feel the tip hit the back of it, but he doesn't. At least until Bertie grabs one of his hands and presses it to his hair. Lionel needs no more permission. His hips snap up with a mighty jerk and the sensation is more than he can bear and he's coming in spurts down Bertie's throat.

Bertie release him with a faint pop, panting as he kneels on the couch in front of an exposed Lionel, limp cock resting on the navy blue fabric of his trousers. When Lionel catches his breath, he tries to articulate that if Bertie needed…assistance, that he'd be happy to do so in a different fashion.

Bertie's face turns beet red.

"I-I already have."

Lionel notices the wet patch on the front of his exquisitely tailor slacks.

"Oh."

There's a silent moment between the two of them as they reorganize their clothing. (Lionel loans a pair of pants to the king in the meantime.) They acknowledge that this cannot go undiscussed and that wives will need to be told and that this can never, _never_ happen again in any capacity.

"I have to go," Bertie says, sounding quite mournful, worse than he did when he first kissed his friend square on the mouth.

"Of course."

Lionel politely walks him to the door, before stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. Bertie turns and this time _he_is the one who ends up with surprised lips. Lionel can taste himself there, can taste stale cigarettes and Bertie and faintly of something sweet, which could be Elizabeth mixed in there.

"You mean the world to me, Bertie," he whispers.

Head downcast, Bertie replies with a simple, "Thank you."

Lionel shuts the door and wonders if he'll ever see Bertie again.


End file.
